


Not Another Word From You

by Lauralot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse, Dammit Westfahl, HYDRA Trash Party, Homophobic Language, M/M, Punishment, Trauma, Vegetarians & Vegans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 11:02:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4562076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no point in screaming; no one will come for you.  You're not an agent now, but a reward.  A possession.  And even if you weren't, no one tells the Winter Soldier how to play with his toys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Another Word From You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/1504.html?thread=2669792#cmt2669792) on the HYDRA Trash Meme: _Give me the asset being rewarded for doing well after particular targets like Fury. Combat makes him hard and he needs to blow off some steam. Maybe the Hydra techs discovered that he submits better to a wipe and cryo, etc, if he gets some of that energy out. Bonus points if Pierce has agents line up and then picks whoever fucked up the biggest recently to be WS's bitch for the night. I'm having fun imagining him walking slowly down the line and randomly stopping in front of people to troll them xD_

It knocks the breath from Murphy’s lungs when the Soldier throws him to the ground. Chest burning, seconds pass before he flinches at the feel of the cold mud he’s fallen in, soaking his hair, creeping into the curves of his ears and down the neck of his jacket. He’s shaking.

Sometimes he thinks he’s never stopped shaking.

The Soldier doesn’t spare him a glance, upright and eyes forward. He’s aiming his submachine gun. A spray of bullets, and the gun’s empty. The Soldier tosses it to the side, narrowly missing Murphy’s skull. The gun strikes the ground and splatters mud in his eyes from the force of the impact.

He wishes it had struck him. Then he could play unconscious while the Soldier’s bending down. But those eyes, cold and sharp, have already found his, and it’s no good pretending. The Soldier mouths something, but Murphy’s ears are ringing from the gunshots and he can’t make out the words. _You_ , he thinks the Soldier says, glancing at whatever enemy agents he just riddled with bullets. _For you_.

Murphy chokes out a thank you. Lips graze his forehead, and his ribs feel bruised when the Soldier hauls him up.

All the websites about coping with this stuff say it’s not uncommon to feel numb. What Murphy wouldn’t give to feel that.

*

“Remember that mission in Chiapas? Rollins forgot to pack your MREs, remember? And you—you were so hungry you tore one of the benches in—in the back of the van. Just tore it back like a tin of sardines.” Murphy couldn’t stop babbling, eyes wide and rolling. He tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry and he choked. “So the Commander, he—he—”

The Soldier’s hand, firm and freezing, slid under Murphy’s shirt.

His eyes wrenched shut, tears sliding out. “He t-t-told me to g-give you something—s-something from my bag, because I always p-packed so much extra. And—”

The Soldier’s breath was hot on his face as he licked at Murphy’s tears. It smelled like antifreeze.

“And— _oh God_ —” Murphy didn’t mean to struggle. His body moved of its own accord, desperately searching for an out. There was nothing. “And! And a-a-all I h-had were these k-k-kale chips and huh-huh-hummus and M-Mercer and Rollins took b-bets on how bad you’d h-h-hit me, remember? R-Remember?”

The Soldier sat back, rubbing his thumb over Murphy’s lips. He nodded.

“You—you remem—good. _Good_. And—and you d-didn’t hit me, r-right? You liked it. You were—” Murphy swallowed a sob. “You were so _nice_. You’re _nice_ , Winter. I—I know you won’t do this. You wouldn’t want someone to—to do _this_ to you.”

“Shh,” said the Soldier. His hand slipped back under Murphy’s shirt, reaching up to his chest before dipping down below his waistband.

“ _Please_!” His voice, shrill and trembling, echoed off the walls. “Please, it wasn’t my fault!”

It wasn’t. It was Westfahl’s.

Murphy’s job on the day’s mission had been to hack and disarm the security system of their target’s office. He’d done it right. It would have worked. It would have _worked_. But Westfahl hadn’t listened when Murphy said “Thirty more seconds,” and Westfahl had triggered the alarm.

They’d salvaged the mission—the Soldier was with them, so how could they not?—but by the time Murphy reached the rendezvous, Westfahl had already blamed the alarm on him. And Westfahl snuck bacon into Murphy’s salad once just for the fun of it. The man would probably shoot out his knees if Murphy challenged his version of events.

Rumlow hadn’t yelled. He hadn’t struck Murphy either. He’d only said “You’re in for it” to him before he ordered everyone into the transport. The Soldier had put his hand on Murphy’s shoulder during the ride back. He’d thought it was a sign of support.

Not _possession_.

Now he found himself in this cell with the Soldier stifling his shriek by slamming their mouths together. Screaming—no, sobbing—against his lips, Murphy thrashed. It wasn’t a conscious choice to fight back; he was like a lab rat struggling to escape a researcher’s syringe. He began kicking, howling, hands flailing and clawing at the Soldier’s face.

His struggles stopped when the Soldier slammed his head into the floor.

The Soldier didn’t bother to unzip or unbutton Murphy’s pants. He tore the fabric apart, tugging it down Murphy’s hips before he shoved him over onto his stomach. Murphy’s head was pounding, stomach churning, but he remained perfectly, horribly aware.

Once, Murphy had read an interview with a Nepalese woman who had escaped from sex trafficking. She’d described the first time she was assaulted, and she’d said that she hardly remembered. That she “just went away.”

Murphy wasn’t going anywhere.

The Soldier’s rigid, freezing fingers trailed between Murphy’s legs, and he jackknifed up off the floor.

“Don’t move!” the Soldier shouted, and so Murphy went still, limp, praying it would be over quickly.

It wasn’t. And the fact that his compliance made the Soldier gentler, slower, maybe what he thought a lover ought to be, only made it worse.

*

“Asset and Murphy sittin’ in a tree,” Westfahl sings under his breath. “F-U-C-K-I-N—”

Mercer slaps him across the back of the head as she steps into the van. “Don’t try to sing when you’re tone-deaf.” She takes a seat on the bench, immediately focused on wiping the mud from her Glocks. She doesn’t spare a glance to the Soldier on the opposite bench or to Murphy at his feet.

She’d looked impressed the morning after the last mission, when Murphy had been able to walk out of the cell of his own accord, albeit with wide, careful steps. They’d all looked impressed until Westfahl had cackled. “He loved it, didn’t you, you faggot? Probably asked him to put his whole fist in your ass.”

The Soldier hums to himself—not Westfahl’s tune, thank the Lord—as he roughly cards his fingers through Murphy’s muddied hair. He’s using the left hand, and strands of hair keep catching on the crevices of his joints, ripping out as he moves. He doesn’t seem to notice. He’s been trying to show what he considers affection for two days straight, and Murphy knows by now what will happen if he struggles.

There’s soft laughter from the other side of the van. _Dammit Westfahl_ , Murphy thinks automatically. He won’t let himself cry. He only sits rigid and counts the minutes until they’re home. The minutes until the Soldier’s in ice.

Maybe then, Murphy can finally feel numb as well.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from the Lady Gaga song ["Swine."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z5cGq3epIuE)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Not Another Word From You (Traducción)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4868654) by [AyaroS92](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AyaroS92/pseuds/AyaroS92)




End file.
